through a mirror, darkly
by Dogsthorne
Summary: A series of surreal, loosely related events in which a story slowly unfolds. VEvey in a post Fifth world, with the slight catch of V being dead. Sometimes, anyway. Written vignette style. [movieverse]
1. the fireworks are starting

A/N: Those who follow _All Fair in... _weren't those days of quick updates just grand? Alas, I am a mere college student and exams are on the horizon. Expect nothing for a while.

These series, on the other hand, I might be able to handle quick updates for the time being. Think of it as a series of snapshots. Please do take a moment to leave a review, they're truly a relief to read.

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_For now we see through a mirror, darkly,  
but soon we will see face to face.  
Now I know only partially;  
but then I shall know fully, as I am fully known.  
So faith, hope, and love remain, these three;  
but the greatest of these is love_.

_1 Cor. 13:12-13 _

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(the fireworks are starting)

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V appeared one night, when I was nearly drunk out of my mind. It was a good sort of drunkenness, the celebratory sort where everything looked fuzzy around the edges and there was that warm glow of wine lighting up your chest.

"Hello," he said, mask expressionless and grinning. "I'm dead. Did you miss me?"

I stubbed my toe on the corner of the baby grand and hiccupped with laughter. To my pleasant surprise, V laughed as well, and took me by my elbows.

He twirled me around and the room spun in dizzying, breathless lights; I was gasping so hard there were tears coming out of my eyes, weeping happiness. V's laughter was a light, ordinary sound-- so different from that that throaty chuckle he used to have.

He sounded different. He sounded freer. It made the warmth in my chest well up, and I touched the side of his mask in a twist of affection. He didn't seem to mind.

"You're not here," I sighed. V took my hands and put one of them on his waist. He took the other with a confident, familiar air of a lover: a waltz, first beat.

"You grew your hair out," he said. "I always loved your hair."

I giggled; he pulled me around the room, our feet stumbling into each other, our laughter as teasing as tipsy college sweethearts on a prom night. I tripped over my own feet and landed with my face pressed awkwardly against his chest: he smelled of orange peels and dark almonds, so strange.

"Happy anniversary," I said, sounding muffled and thick to my ears.

He pulled me up and wiped the tears from my eyes. "The fireworks are starting," his voice smiled. "Let's go watch."

The next morning: a throbbing hangover, nearly-empty merlot rolling on the balcony, the ghost of sulfur in the grey sky and the taste of ash and salt in my mouth.


	2. fall from grace

A/N: The lengths of these vignettes will vary but will probably, as the story peeks through, grow longer. Thank you for your comments! I really do appreciate them. :)

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(fall from grace)

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"You said you fell in love with me," I wondered aloud. The figure lurking in the shadows made a small movement, the distinction camouflaged by the darkness.

'Blood loss," V said, though he sounded amused. "I think I was in love with the whole of London at that moment."

"Oh." A flicker of disappointment, as quick as the flare of disbelief. I was sober—at least, I was sure I was; I'd only had one obligatory flute of champagne at the meeting tonight—but the night was late enough to be morning and I'd not slept for over forty hours now. My words slurred in my mouth and I could barely keep my heavy head up.

My fingers fumbled for the pins in my hair. A waif in the mirror stared back at me, exhaustion dull in her eyes and the only hint of pleasure in the tug of her lips. Behind her, the shadows wavered again.

"Why didn't you stay in the Gallery?" the ghost asked, sounding curious. "I meant it for you."

"I missed you."

"Ah. That."

There was a pause as I struggled to unclasp my necklace. My fingers were shaking with a mix of weariness and exhilaration. I felt lightheaded, on the verge of flying, perched on the edge of my chair like a sparrow quivering. I could fly, yet. The fall would be magnificent.

"_That._ Yes. I said I missed you," I repeated, the accusation soft with all the fragility of a secret shared. A step towards the edge of the cliff, one foot in the air. "I still do. Do you even understand that, V? I _missed_ you. I didn't even know I liked you this much till you died."

The specter remained silent. There was movement towards the light, but then he stilled at the edge of the shadows as if it was a threshold not to be passed.

I didn't want to argue. A foot in the air… I brought my head down on the dressing table slowly, before he could answer, and let the weariness lull me like an old lullaby. The shadow came closer as my eyes blurred.

"I'm so tired," I whispered, and we both knew I wasn't talking only of tonight, of raising New England and his revolution. I shut my eyes.

There was only darkness then: half-dreams, warmth, butterfly kisses of cool leather on skin… Someone was fiddling with my hair, loosening it from its styling.

_Sleep, Evey_, said a voice, and it was familiar and unfamiliar, unremarkable and so terribly haunting— _Evey, Evey. Sleep._

I fell.


	3. memories for dinner

A/N: Only you and me left as readers again, Pumpkinator, if last chapt's response was any judge. Ah, well.

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(memories for dinner)

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I went to the Watch's after the day ended. The streetlamps were spaced far and wide, and the wind skittered scraps of cheap-print posters down the clay-grey pavement like little whispering phantoms in the dark. Occasionally, the posters wrapped themselves around the legs of the few people who were hurrying along, already bundled in their thick coats and worries; none bothered to pause to pull it off.

A man nodded gruffly as he shuffled past me; on the back of his calf, a walking advertisement: _CAPITALISTS FOR NEW ENGLAND! FREEDOM FOREVER!_

I dodged a fluttering call for the past—_YOUR MONARCHY, YOUR HERITAGE! FREEDOM FOREVER!_— and ducked into the white glare of the Watch's entrance.

"Good evening," I nodded at the man on duty. He nodded back, too used to my visits to go through the official procedure of getting my details down.

Inside, it was surprisingly quiet, only the odd drunk or defiant looking group huddled in handcuffs in the corner.

I veered right and turned into the largest office. The door was open.

"Eric," I smiled. "How are you?"

The Head Watch looked up and didn't look surprised to see me. "Nervous," he said. "Things are too calm. What is that?"

"Your dinner." I set the packaged takeaways on the only clear space in his desk, setting them one atop the other. "And mine."

Eric cleared his throat, his usual sign of embarrassment. "You have to stop doing this," he said, not unpleasantly.

"You have to start eating properly," I countered. "You're worse than Dominic. At least he remembers breakfast."

He shrugged and shuffled away the papers he'd been studying. I caught a glimpse of the usual FREEDOM FOREVER endnotes and grasped their content immediately.

"Studying the parties? That'll take some time."

He snorted. "Sometimes I think there's one for every bloody person in England." He gestured for me to remove the files on the chairs and sit. "What's wrong now, Evey?"

I could have pretended puzzlement. He would have pretended to let go of it.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Eric?" I heard myself say instead. A sudden stillness invaded the room, like the breath held before the shout. I smoothened out my skirt and forced myself to look straight at him.

"These days, I believe in anything," he replied after a pause, but his hands had stilled over the papers. "Whose ghost have you been seeing?"

His face bland as a mask, a dart of a twitch at the side of his jaw, but it was clear: he knew. Who else could it be? There were twin flames of trepidation and knowing as he stared at me with his dark detective eyes: already, he was half-believing, half-rising, the undoubting John to my Thomas.

"No one," I lied, ignoring his flash of disbelief. There was already one insomniac in this room and Eric hardly needed to join the club. My relief was a breaking wave: it threatened to overwhelm me. It wasn't impossible, wasn't only me, I wasn't going mad. Not yet. I resisted the inane impulse to reach over and hug Eric for being the most grimly pragmatic man I knew and still ignore the laws of logic when it came to V.

"It was just a silly thought. Don't tell Dominic," I add automatically. "He worries enough already."

Eric looked disgruntled. "He worries about _you_," he muttered, but he didn't push it.

We sat in the office of England's new Watch: just a weary man and an ordinary young woman, our plastic forks making no sound against the waxed paper and the future of England laid out as our placemats. I ate for Eric's sake and he ate for mine, and our unspoken thoughts curled around the edges of our pale knuckles.

The dinner finished without any words.


	4. a toast to the champions

A/N: Feedback, dear lurkers, would be nice. Knowing there's some sort of interest is always encouraging.

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(a toast to the champions)

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Third time, it was deliberate.

A Chardonnay, 1967, of slightly spicy bouquet.

I drank with grim satisfaction, and then with slightly less grim pleasure, and finally with giggling release. I was singing when V finally appeared.

"Really, Evey," he tsked. "Wine like this should be appreciated."

The sofa sank as he sat by me, reaching for the bottle to pour himself a glass. I watched with dutiful admiration as not one drop landed on the table. It'd been very tricky to do that for the last couple of glasses.

"Took you long enough," I sighed, and leant my head on his shoulder. He put the wine-glass to the amber-dim light from the kitchen and admired the colour: the liquid of a dark-wound, rich as ichor in its blood-beauty.

"This is from the Gallery," he said approvingly. He pulled me down from the shoulder so my head was on his lap. I twisted my body clumsily to adapt to the awkward position, and found my vision blanked out by his hand across my eyes.

My protest was cut short.

"Be still," V's disembodied voice came to my muddled senses. "I want to drink."

He took his time to appreciate the wine; I was humming by the time he was done. His other hand crept to cup my throat lightly, feeling the vibration as if he would steal my voice away.

I giggled when he started to join in with the words, his voice clearer than usual. I wouldn't have thought V would know the lyrics to a pop song.

"You sound so different," I said dreamily. His fingers under my jaw moved up to explore: the curve of my neck, the sensitive skin under my ear. One gloved finger brushed across my lips, quick as a tease, and my lips parted instinctively.

"The mask muffles," he answered. "You won't believe how long it took for me to learn how to throw my voice without sounding as if there were cotton balls lodged in my throat."

"No, not just that," I mumbled, but I couldn't remember what I meant to say. A hint of melancholy started to seep in, cosy with the glow of the alcohol.

"Where have you been?" I asked, soft and slurred. It sounded so sad, and lovely - everything was lovely, so sadly lovely. Lovely, sad V. "All this time… Why now?"

"I've been dead."

"Yes, but…" There was something important I had to say, I was sure of it. V traced my collarbone with his thumb, then moved up to cup the side of my face, his touch wondering and gentle as he stroked my cheek, unabashed. I shivered and turned my face into him, yearning and dreading.

"I've always wanted to do this," he said. "Did you eat anything before you started drinking?"

"What?"

He sighed, and then his hand lifted and I was staring at the implacable grin of Fawkes again. "You need to eat more, Evey," he said patiently, as if I cared about that. "You're too thin."

"I wanted to see you," I mumbled, trying to make sense of our conversation. The ceiling behind V's head retreated and advanced with disorientating insistence. I grasped at V's wrist, his palm still warm against my cheek, and tried to hold on as if it would prevent him from fading away. Hold on, don't let go. The room spun. I was starting to fall.

The mask gleamed as if from a distance, a pale starkness at the end of the line. "You have a weak constitution," it gleamed. "One glass would've been enough."

I held on stubbornly, clutching at him like death itself. "Did you miss me?" I said, not caring how it sounded.

"I never stopped," he replied, and there it was, in the way he said it: so easily, as if he opened his heart up everyday; so sincerely that the knot of angry misery deep in me tightened till I wanted to cry. A pain beyond tears, an anger without hate, a mirror smashed inside. It had been carving shards into me ever since the night he died and I wanted him to bleed like I did.

"I don't want you to go," I whispered, dizzy with wine and grief. "Is that wrong?"

There was another small sigh, another shard in my treacherous heart. Damn, damned man.

"I never asked you to stay, Evey," he reminded gently.

"You asked me to come back."

A pause. V was the only sharply etched thing in the dim blur of my peripheral, a creature of angled shadows and unforgiving whites as he looked down at me. He was warm and tense beneath my head, and for a moment, I could not doubt that he was real.

He twined his gloved fingers between mine carefully, an affection the V of old would never have allowed. "One glass," he said. "And no promises."

I was afraid of what I would say if I spoke, so I only closed my eyes and nodded.

When I opened them, I had overslept and was late for work. The room was airy with the morning breeze from the open balcony, and the two wine-glasses I'd placed on the table were somehow stark in the emptiness. One was half-filled with red, my unfinished drink.

The other was clean.


	5. adam and eve

A/N: Great thanks for the feedback, guys! Do leave a review; it really does hearten. Also, this series has quite a way to go before it ends, just so you know.

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(adam and eve)

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There was a park only four streets from my apartment. It was a hedged, defiantly green little corner in a world that had been eaten by asphalt streets and the monochrome ugliness of progress. The path through the tamed wilderness was a winding thing, more trampled grass than the sparse pale pebbles that rasped like broken glass when you walked on it. Once, there were benches lining the path in a steady rhythm like Hansel's trail of white breadcrumbs under the lace of dark branches overhead; now, the rotting wood were gashes marking time in a dying park.

"It's like another world within a city," Dominic remarked. "Mini Eden."

His arm was light around my waist, intimate and causal all at once. I made a deprecating gesture to our surroundings, a tease in my tone. " Eden, really? No wonder Adam and Eve left."

Dominic grinned, boyish in his levity. "I see an Eve right here."

"Ha ha, very clever."

We walked for a little while longer, the grey buildings a mocking backdrop to the straggled branches of the oaks before us, and soon found a dry place to sit. I brought my knees to my chin but allowed Dominic to pull me back against him.

"So what's wrong?" he said, after a moment's peace.

I made a sound of irritation. "Isn't it possible that I find you or Eric without something being wrong?"

"Yes, quite possible," he agreed. "But what's wrong?"

I said nothing, only leant back and closed my eyes. He felt as solid as V had been, as steady. Disquiet brushed past my mind on ghost-moth wings.

"Is it your column?" he tried.

I shook my head, feeling him move against my back. "No, it's nothing."

"Is it the paper itself?"

"No, really…"

"Is it—"

"Dominic! It's nothing. Don't worry."

Dominic's diplomatic silence lasted nearly a minute this time, a mildly impressive act of self-control. I counted the seconds as we watched the sky shift in sullenly like the tips of a foamy sea, the breezes smelling crisply of rain as they rustled the grass by our hands.

"How has your mail been this week?" he said at last, bluntly tactful as only a policeman mentored by Eric Finch could be. "They say there've been letter-bomb threats going around."

"Have I got any threatening letters, you mean," I said tartly, before I could stop myself. I wondered how long it'd be before he and Eric realized I knew there were contracts in the street out for my life. I'd probably known before them; I'd no illusions when I started writing.

I found Dominic's hand and squeezed it.

"I just needed to see you, honestly."

"That'll be a first," he muttered against my neck, and it took a beat before the significance sank in.

I twisted around to look at him in the eyes, heart sinking. His brown eyes were steady, a hint of weariness that Eric carried in his shoulders; there was no accusation in them.

"You've been busy, that's all," the sweet man excused for me, and for a moment his lips quirked in an ironical, self-mocking twist. I bit my tongue before an apology could stutter off, abashed and horrified; bitterness did not suit Dominic and god help me if I was the one who put it in him.

I put a hand on his cheek, elbow twisting awkwardly, and the weight of guilt grew heavier in my stomach when he leaned into it. There was a spot of stubble on the side of his jaw where he'd missed a spot, and his dark hair had been ruffled wild by the wind; the stark collar of his shirt had been loosened from its first few buttons and like this, so close, I could catch a whiff of stale coffee and day-old aftershave. His face was open; so readable to me that I could trace his thoughts in the lines of his eyes; my fingers itched to follow his worries across his forehead, to brush my thumb over his temple. Dominic looked young and grim and, my heart clenched— and there was longing in his stare because he_ was_ intense too, in his own way, even if it was the more ordinary sort, even if it was quieter…

I should kiss him, right now. There was nothing to feel guilty about.

Dominic's eyes darkened briefly when I leaned back and twisted round, settling myself against him again. But he said nothing. He had never pushed me into initiating, and that made it worse, somehow.

"You're here," I said softly, as if in answer.

He tipped my head back gently and I opened my mouth willingly when he captured it with his lips. He tasted real.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said when he pulled back. I grasped at the finality in his tone gratefully. His arms circled my waist again, holding me as if I would escape, and we watched the dusk fall on the city's treetop silhouette like dying fire settling on damp kindling.

That night, I set the Chardonnay in the cupboard and stared at it for the longest time. I dreamt of nothing.


	6. call me crazy

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(call me crazy)

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My hangovers had a habit of lingering. One glass of wine could last a day of mild headache. A third of a bottle stretched it out for a week, a distant humming in the temple and a sensitivity to light as persistent as longing.

V was right: I always did have a weak constitution.

As always, it left me drained in the day and restless at night. Enough that sleep had previously eluded me like memory dancing out of reach – nearly a fortnight now, and I'd yet to surpass more than a handful of sleep each night. I told myself it was the hangover, the stresses of the day. The strain of always keeping an eye over my shoulder, ever ready for that opportunist sniper. As far as I could tell, most parties were in favour of me keeping certain advantages—such as breathing—but the situation with crime and politics was always… fluid. I didn't mind, not really. It spiced up my days with a certain tinge of guilty excitement and kept me from becoming complacent. Dominic would be horrified.

The day was unusually warm. A loose shirt, shorts and a self-granted day-off from work. Not that Stevenson would ever know, anyway; I rarely stepped into the office except to pick up whatever was traveling on the grapevine and drop off articles. I resigned myself to another insistence on a raise tomorrow – sudden absences always made Stevenson nervous.

I felt sticky even though the air from the open window was light after the afternoon shower. Skin already feeling like it was congealing on the soft couch leather; my exhaustion so pure that I couldn't move, couldn't sleep. My face was buried in the crook of my elbow, and I was curled up facing the couch backing… just dreaming, of sea sky and park leaves… fire like roses streaking the night… bone masks and… wine…

The couch dipped. Just a slight depression of pressure, in the space where my knees drew close to the couch backing. My blood sang; I did not open my eyes.

"You're sending me mixed messages, Evey," V murmured. Outside, the afternoon hummed on, all distant voices and ordinary lives. I had that, once. Ordinary life.

Something light brushed against the small of my back, inciting shivers. My shirt had hitched up to my ribs, evidence of my previous tossing. V continued tracing my spine, following the undulations up to the small of my back as if counting them.

"You don't drink the wine, yet you call to me," he said. "You refuse sleep for the dreams, yet you think of me even in day."

His fingers reached the hem of my shirt; his gloved knuckles brushed against my skin as he twisted it loosely in his fingers. More careful pressure on the curve of my waist: V's other hand resting on skin.

"You have to decide what you want, Evey," he rebuked. "This isn't healthy for either of us."

My laughter was a soft hiccupping thing. "Healthy? I would've thought health would be the least of your worries. And I _can't_ think—there's nothing to decide! Nothing…"

I kept my eyes firmly shut, partly from exhaustion, partly from light-headed terror. I could imagine him well enough: a figure cutting black in an drab room, like the only solid thing in a transient world. Or maybe nothing at all; maybe only air, only desperate spaces and the emptiness of a grasping grief. If I didn't see, either could still be true.

"Take Courage! Whatever you decide to do, it will probably be the wrong thing."

"What?"

"A quote," V sighed. "I used to be better at this."

His hand on my waist inched down to cup my hipbone hungrily, and for a moment my heart leapt and I could barely breathe for the longing, the terrible hope. His touch was steady, as certain as Dominic's kiss: I had no illusions of what he wanted. And I _wanted_--

My shirt was pulled over my stomach with one quick tug. I was suddenly aware of the lack of contact between us.

"Take care on your dressing when you call, milady," he said, his voice coming from above my head. "I have not the willpower I once had."

I opened my eyes to the soft dimness of my own flesh. "I didn't call you," I said, wondering and inanely hurt. He was just my hallucination, after all... But how could he not hear my heart in my voice? That sadistic bastard, he always was, always…

"I'm sober."

"Yes," V agreed.

"And it's afternoon," I continued, as if each point was an accusation in fact. I reasoned, without conviction:

"This isn't happening. You're not here. I'm dreaming again. I watched you die. No – I watched you _let yourself_ die."

"Thank you for sending me off," he said, gracious as you please. I glared at the pinkish darkness in the crook of my elbow, ignoring the wet heat stinging my eyes. For a moment, I imagined the shadows were cast from V; that he really was standing over me, breathing and real and so alive that he was worth the tears.

"I'm going mad," I said unhappily. My head buzzed with grey noise; I badly needed to sleep.

The shadows deepened as V leaned closer. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked, and his baritone had a precise, rich beauty to it as if he suddenly remembered how he used to speak.

The warning in his tone alerted me. "No!" I jerked, fear momentarily eating heavy exhaustion away. Panic thickened the heavy fog in my head, made it hard to think. Don't go, don't go, not again—

"It's just… I… You can't…" I trailed off. Evidence of my body treachery: sleepless for days, and now V is here and weariness is thickening my tongue, luring me oblivion. There should be no relief to be found to have a dead man by your side, but god help me, there was. I was afraid of what it meant.

"If I look up, will you be there?"

I had whispered it too quietly for him to catch. V made a sound that could've been either relief or frustration at my silence, and then he was pulling my gathered curls to my nape, gently tucking the stray strands behind my ear.

His breath was warm on my cheek. "One glass would not last a hangover this long, Evey," he murmured. It was the closest to an invitation he'd said yet.

He continued, voice a warm anchor through the haze, so lovely…"Though I must say I didn't expect just a third of a bottle to hit you so badly. I suppose we'll have to find some other way."

No... neither did I. And yet, yet… here you are... here-- Wait. _Wait._

My thoughts stilled. Turned sluggishly against themselves, seeking something diamond-sharp glinting in the fog. A third of the bottle...

My eyes snapped open. The couch leather protested as I raised myself on one elbow, head dizzy from the sudden change in equilibrium. There was nothing there but dust mites hanging lazily in marble lighting; an empty room, empty words. I ignored the drop in my stomach and staggered off to the kitchen, heart in hand.

In the cupboard, a bottle on the shelf: Chardonnay, half-empty. But he was right. I had only drank a third.

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_Ashleigh Brilliant, 'Take Courage! ... wrong thing'  
_A/N: Really, really, really should not be writing. Oh god. But anyway, I really appreciate all your feedback! Big thanks, and please do drop a note, no matter how short.  
... oh god. 


	7. lead me from

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(lead me from)

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Eric didn't like the interview. He had wanted me to disappear for a couple of weeks, not be on repeat broadcast for the whole of bloody England to hear. He wanted me to keep writing if I _insisted,_ but only if I kept the discussion on the parties under the grey twilight of vague generalities rather than dropping names like uncovered mines every other sentence. He wanted me to be safe.

It was very touching, after the yelling session that never went above a strained voice. I tried to explain, without much hope; to his credit, Eric tried to understand, without any more hope than me. In the end, he sent Dominic to see me out. A truce.

"Only the suppressed word is dangerous," I told Dominic at the door. He didn't appreciate the sentiment any more than his partner did.

"But of all times, Evey," he sighed instead, and pulled me out on the street with him. He took me by the hand and we plunged against the current of the lunchtime crowd like two lovers against the world. An alley a couple of blocks away offered relative seclusion: we turned in.

"I understand what you want to do," Dominic started immediately. "But for god's sake, just for the next five weeks—can't you just tone it down a little? You're this close to the edge, Evey, _this_ close. There's no point winning the goddamn battle but losing the—"

He went on for a bit. I watched London pass by the alley's entrance over his shoulder, all dark suits and respectable hats. A couple with linked hands weaved through, both equally in love, as couples should be. I fancied their trailing merged shadows made for a stylized tree.

"—and you know- Evey, are you even_ listening_ to me?"

"You know I'm not," I said calmly. Dominic's eyes were dark and wild; I could almost see myself in them. I tried again, reason in my tone, "Someone has to say something, Dominic, and I am not so irreplaceable…"

"You are to me," he said brusquely. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to say something I couldn't answer yet.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Dominic?" I said hastily. "I think I'm starting to."

Dominic stared at me. "I think you need to sleep more," he said. I offered a weak smile, and my fingers found his. A moment's resistance - and then he relented and leant his forehead against mine, so close that our breaths merged and we made our own confessional of darkness between us. He was so tense. Something hollow ached in my chest, and I moved closer —

"You don't even believe in England that much," he muttered. Shock stole my words: part guilt, part anger. Dominic wouldn't meet my eyes.

"I'll take you home," he said. Home, I thought, where the heart is. He didn't know the way. I followed anyway.

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_Only the suppressed word is dangerous. - Ludwig Börne _

A/N: Am going to work on 'loosely connected' and shorter lengths more. Hopefully. Just thought to warn you. Big thanks for all your feedback :D


	8. here i am

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(here i am)

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I waited for a good night's sleep. It took as long as expected, since my mistrust for all drugs in general made sleeping pills out of the question. One day, I woke and realized I'd actually made it till dawn. Counted the hours mentally, and decided six hours of solid oblivion was as good a rest as any. I got the Chardonnay out, spread open the thin curtains to herald a new day. I stood on the balcony and watched the sunrise unseeingly. Dominic would be up right about now. My cell was off.

I waited till the champagne pink had bleached out of the sky, and a clear light had filled my apartment. Apprehension made my fingers restless; the wine-glasses clinked delicately as I held them. The illusion of free will, in my hands. All coincidence, God and dice, oh god…

Here I was: sober and level-headed and as alert as I'd ever be. Evey Hammond, Word of London. Evey Hammond, prodigal daughter.

Here I was: pouring a dead man's wine in glasses that weren't mine either. Here I was: Persephone sipping rich promises with shaking fingers, ordinary and inelegant. They call me the Terrorist's Whore when they don't like what I write, did you know that V, did you know…

Here I was: just Evey. Here I am. Come get me.

I tipped the glass back; I drank it all. The glass sang a light note as I put it back on the table. Nothing had changed. The room was silent save for the distant streets, and my heart. I waited: one minute, five. Ten.

_Oh_… Nothing.

And I felt— I felt _relieved,_ that's all; it was just – just cutting relief…

"When I said one glass, I didn't mean you couldn't take the time to enjoy its bouquet."

My heart leapt high, I whipped around, but I already knew.

V, leaning behind the couch backing, as if he'd every right to be there. More than just a shadow – the morning light didn't allow for that –, his doublet was ordinary dark fabric, no longer night incarnate. It rose and fell with his breathing, with terrible banality.

"Confusion now hath made his masterpiece," V remarked. I snapped my mouth shut.

"_You—_" I was scrambling up to stand on the couch, all angry knees and elbows, "_you—_"

"You _dare_—" I wasn't blinded by my fury; I wanted to believe my eyes too much. Terror, and wild hope - both rising like the panicked flight of birds, but anger above all, because, _because__—_

I launched myself off the couch. I attacked him. He staggered as he caught me but I didn't care – my fists fell on him like a child's against a closed door, demanding entrance, fingers groping and twisting the fabric of his doublet, insistent; he tried to catch my wrist and I lashed out at him, saying something, something, I couldn't hear, you're here, _V!_ I didn't care if I was hurting him, I didn't care, I didn't care; he couldn't defend himself unless he let me fall, and my hands went for his neck, but he must have misread my intent.

"NO! Evey!" The mask jerked back, and his hands tightened fiercely around my waist; I stopped in pained surprise, panting. I realized he thought I was going to rip off his mask, and maybe I should, _damn _him…

The echo of his name hung like a gasping prayer in the air. Violence smelled like tears.

"How dare you," I said softly. Joy was dangerous. Joy was confirmation. Joy was— "V. This is another of your sick tests, isn't it? You've been here all along. You play dead for over a year just to see what I'll do, and then come back and—"

V was shaking his head. "I would not—"

My stomach twisted. "Wouldn't you?" I said sharply. "I'm not the sadist here, have I ever known how you think?"

He fell silent. I was shaking, or maybe he was. Either way, nothing felt steady. V was here, he had hurt me, I had hurt him, hooray, all's right with the world, and now curtains part to reveal… please…

V set me down carefully. The floorboards felt cool and smooth under my bare feet – they felt real. A thread from his sleeve caught at a fingernail when I refused to let go of his arm; it felt real, too. I could not stand it any longer.

"V, tell me you're here." My voice cracked; I didn't care. I was shaven-head and cut open again, by the tracks, asking a man in mask to stay. "Tell me this is real."

"Evey." He took my hand. It sounded like an apology. He placed my hand on his chest, his own gloved one trapping it palm-down. At first, there was only his heartbeat, only the miracle of life, and joy took me by the throat and despite it all, I started to smile—

Then I felt it. I hissed in a breath. Instinct made me flinch away, but V would not let me. A stench of copper started to pervade, sickly heavy, in the air. And in the unforgiving light of day, something darker was spreading in pools on V's doublet like a disease eating him inside out.

The cloth under my palm felt wet, and sticky.

"Don't fight it," V grated. I looked at him with eyes blank with horror; he did not seem to mind that he was dying again, before my eyes. The mask jerked sharply from side to side in negative, wig splaying – had he always been wearing a cloak? – and my god, I could smell the gunpowder with the blood, the clotted mud, like in my nightmares. And it was impossible, he was here, he was standing— "Evey," he said, and he sounded tired, he was trying to show me somethi – _that is the most beautiful thing you could have given me_, no, _no!_— "Stop it," V repeated, and he was trembling under my palm, he was trembling like I'd only felt him do once before, the room was trembling, and I could not – I could not –

It was too fast to be a surprise. One moment, V was shaking with – with what? Pain? Effort? – and the mask looming over me, calling me to look, _look,_ white death in a frozen grin; the next, his hand had pressed against my eyes roughly for a breath of an instant, and I blinked: he was gone.

He was gone.

The air smelled of nothing. Here I was: a room hollow with morning light, one arm stretched into the emptiness. Here I was: fingerprint pebbling around my wrist, pale skin bruising so easily. Here I was: breathless with despair, again; I'd failed him somehow, again. Here I am. You got me.

I had been the one to let go.

_

* * *

_

_Confusion now hath made his masterpiece – Shakespeare  
That is the most beautiful thing you could have given me – V4V, movie _

Damn loghorrea. It seems length will have to vary for this series. :( Thanks so much for all feedback; much appreciated!


	9. what you sow

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(what you sow)

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-

I was too impatient for hesitation this time. Half a night's tossing, standing barefoot in the kitchen, pale glow from the slit of the fridge lighting my toes. There was almost no Chardonnay left, but enough for three mouthfuls. The flavour curled on my tongue.

V didn't come.

The next day, from the Gallery: Cabernet Sauvignon, 1984. Bordeaux, 1969 and 1991. Chenin Blanc, 1899; Riesling, 1983; Zinfandel, White, 1978; Sauvignon Blanc; Pinot Noir; Merlot; Fume Blanc; Chardonnay again. Excessive, yes, and a crime to abuse on my indifference, but I didn't care. A glass in the morning, and another dose in the evening. When one didn't work, I tried another bottle the next day, as if it actually mattered. Only the promise of a throbbing hangover deterred me from downing more; I told myself I could control myself that much, at least.

The scent of wine seemed to pervade my whole apartment, curled around the edges of my mind. Light and rich and unmistakable as sweet blood – aged in oak, aged in flesh, what did it matter? I couldn't sleep, I couldn't write, I couldn't, couldn't , _couldn't_. I cursed, I argued with the air, I paced and waited and got drunk from anger and wild laughter, from the heady cocktail of resentment and damned longing. How dare you, get out, come back. You bastard, bastard, why can't you ever _leave me alone_? When I wrote, the writings came in surges, in splashes of spider-ink desperation that ended abruptly, mid-sentence. It was like the old times again, except this time the hurt came duller, and it was me who was waiting.

Somewhere in the second week, my door started shaking. The bottles clinked together prettily when I shoved them in the cupboard, the guilty echo of thirty pieces of silver. I let Dominic in before he could break down my door.

"So you aren't dead," he greeted me, without waiting for my excuses. His voice was even and mild, as if it was just a social call. "I haven't seen you in the papers for over a week. You disconnected your phone. Stevenson said you haven't been in the office since the Thursday before last. You aren't sick. Did I miss anything?"

"Please don't yell," I sighed. I led him in and he followed.

"I'm not yelling," Dominic clipped, dangerously pleasant. The stylized Vs on his coat sleeve were nearly darkened over by mud and rain; he must have come straight off the job. And V would be everywhere, wouldn't he? He was right about damned symbols, people--

I blinked up, surprised. Dominic was very close suddenly, his fingers nearly bruising my forearm. He looked, I realized dully, very tired.

"I've been very worried, Evey," he said quietly. "It's been a rough day, so don't tell me you were sick. Talk to me. _Please._ What's wrong? Why are you hiding?"

"I'm not," I said instantly, stung. "Why would I be hiding? You know me better than that."

He smiled crookedly. "I know. I was just checking to see how bad it was. You haven't been reading up on the news, have you?"

His tone caught at me. A chill flickered at the base of my spine.

"No. What happened?"

Dominic took out a crumpled newspaper article from his coat as if he'd expected this. And it was such a banal thing: smudged newspaper, a man in a coat heavy with rain and dripping dark drops on the floorboards, but the quiescence of everything – his breathing, the triteness of this familiarity, the unremarkable slate walls of my apartment, as if I'd never seen them before – caught up in one dizzying rush and suddenly the idea of ghosts and V seemed very far away. For the first time since V's visit, everything abruptly seemed sharply etched, as if the lines of reality had been blurred by his presence before.

Dominic passed me the paper. Something was tightening in my stomach even before the headlines screamed at me.

"They've post-phoned it till four months from now," someone was saying, but it sounded distant. It sounded unreal. "It's starting all over again."


End file.
